


Allegro

by redex_writes



Series: Piano Concerto No. 20 [1]
Category: The Alienist (TV)
Genre: Feelings Realization, First Kiss, Fluff, Gay Panic, Getting Together, I love that that's a tag lmao, Laszlo is demisexual but there wasn't really a term for it back then soooo, M/M, Non-Explicit Sex, Period-Typical Homophobia, References to Mozart, no beta we die like my high school english teacher would if she saw how many em dashes i use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-20
Updated: 2021-03-19
Packaged: 2021-03-29 00:53:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,514
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30148236
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redex_writes/pseuds/redex_writes
Summary: allegro (music):adjective. performed at a brisk tempo.Italian, literally ‘lively, gay’.
Relationships: Laszlo Kreizler/John Schuyler Moore
Series: Piano Concerto No. 20 [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2218944
Comments: 5
Kudos: 11





	1. i

The infuriating thing about Laszlo’s impeccable punctuality was that John had no excuse.

“Ah,” he said airily as a slightly out of breath John climbed into the carriage. “You’re right on time.”

John shot him a look, settling into the seat across from him.

“There’s no need to act as though you’ve not been sitting outside my house for a quarter hour,” he said crossly. “Kindly spare me your irony.”

“No irony,” replied Laszlo. His expression was placid, but John could never miss that playful glimmer in his eyes. “I foresaw your lack of time management, and asked Cyrus to bring me twenty minutes early.”

John gaped at him incredulously as the carriage jerked and started to move.

“I cannot believe you,” he said finally, indignant.

Laszlo didn’t reply, but his mouth curved up in a smile, eyes crinkling at the corners. John knew that he was one of the few people who knew that smile, and though he would never admit it, it made his chest warm with pride.

“Can you, John Schuyler Moore, tell me with absolute certainty that had I arrived at the scheduled time, we would not be late to our outing?”

John narrowed his eyes at him, but could think of no retort.

“You know,” he mused instead, “I don’t know if I’ve ever seen you this excited for an opera.”

Laszlo’s smile widened into a near grin. John’s stomach lurched—an effect of the carriage ride, of course.

“Ah, but John,” he said, leaning forward and clapping a hand on John’s knee— _Curse this damned contraption,_ he thought fiercely as another flip of his stomach made his legs weak, despite being seated. 

“We aren’t going to an opera this evening.”

John raised an eyebrow. “Oh?”

Laszlo’s eyes were practically sparkling, and John made an unrelated mental note to inform Cyrus that the suspension on the carriage must have been in extreme disrepair.

“Tonight, we are going to a concert.”

John couldn’t say that the idea of a concert appealed to him much more than an opera—an opera at least had things to look at, rather than a bunch of smartly-dressed men behind instruments. He thought about pointing this out to Laszlo, but one look at the man blew the thought from his mind. Laszlo was obviously swept up in excitement—something that even John rarely saw from him. He realized off-handedly that, had they been in the same scenario many years prior, John would likely think him unaffected, disinterested even. However, picking up Laszlo’s subtle tells was second nature to him by now—the tapping of his fingers where they rested on his legs; the quickness of his words as they conversed, however briefly, while making their way inside; how his eyes flicked around as they took their seats, as if determined to see everything all at the same time.

“I’ve been anticipating this for weeks,” Laszlo spoke, startling John. He realized he’d been drifting, and did his best to bring himself back to the moment.

“Have you? You’ve not mentioned it once.”

“Ah…”

Laszlo looked away, turning his eyes towards the stage. His fingers tapped against his knee.

“Truthfully, I hadn’t planned on coming.” He lifted a shoulder in a half-shrug. “I know that many people would find this sort of affair rather dull—it isn’t like there’s much to do but listen, with no plot to follow or performance to watch.”

John nodded, grateful now that he hadn’t spoken his thoughts on the matter earlier.

“But you enjoy it?”

“Yes, very much.” Laszlo looked over at him again, that small, near indistinguishable curve of his lips back again. “The music they’ve selected for this one in particular is quite...captivating to me.”

The small smile fell into a pensive look.

“It’s...rather personal, in all honesty—so much so that I would rather not discuss the details at this time. That is why I hadn’t planned on attending—to do so alone, or with someone who wouldn’t appreciate it, would feel quite wrong.”

John could only stare at him. Laszlo cleared his throat and straightened his posture, not meeting John’s eyes. He was wringing his hands, something he was not wont to do.

“To say it like that makes it seem like I hold some sort of expectation of you—I understand these aren’t your favourite events, that’s not—what I mean to say is that, of all people, you—”

Without thinking, John reached out and placed a hand over Laszlo’s two. Laszlo looked up at him, eyes widened slightly and, if John wasn’t imagining it, a red hue dusting his face.

“I understand,” he said softly, with a smile he hoped was reassuring, “and I’m honoured. Let’s not dwell on whatever unpleasantness is keeping you from enjoying this evening, alright?”

Laszlo looked at him with such gratitude, and John only then realized that he had not pulled his hands away. Tentatively, he tightened his own briefly over them before pulling away, keeping Laszlo’s gaze.

And Laszlo gave him that little smile again—like a secret shared only between the two of them, a sight meant for only John—turning away only when the crowd hushed for the performance to begin. Without fully thinking about it, John made a silent promise that he would not miss a single note of the concert. He nodded to himself in resolve, folding his hands in his lap and finally turning his eyes to the stage as the music began. 

He kept his promise, mostly. While he did his best to stay attentive to the music and didn’t doze off once, John realized that he was beginning to pay less attention to the concert, and more to the man beside him. As he often slept through such performances, he’d never really been able to see his friend like this—utterly enraptured by a performance, all of his attention focused on what he was hearing. John watched as his expressions changed throughout the show: from intently watching the stage as though he could see the music, to sitting back in his seat with his hands in his lap, looking utterly relaxed. Eventually John gave up the pretense of paying attention to the musicians, merely sitting and watching Laszlo with a sort of awe that he could only feel for him.

It was because of this close attention that he noticed the shift.

If not for the intermittent clapping from the audience, John would admittedly have a very difficult time telling one piece from the next. However, even without the applause as a marker, he wouldn’t have been able to miss the change in Laszlo the moment the final concerto began.

As soon as the violins began their soft, somber melody, Laszlo’s eyes sharpened. He straightened up in his chair and stared, as though waiting for something, becoming completely still as the music swelled into a more intense tempo.

Completely still—John realized after a moment—except for his fingers. He hadn’t noticed it at first, but in the dim light of the concert hall he saw that Laszlo was tapping his fingers again, though not in the aimless anticipation he had been before. No, as he watched, Laszlo’s fingers began to dance across his legs in a pattern that was indecipherable to John, yet very obviously deliberate. It took him a few minutes to understand what he was seeing, but when he did, it struck him like lightning.

Laszlo was playing the song.

He was certain of it. Although the fingers of Laszlo’s right hand were faltering and seemed to be twitching more than anything, there was no denying that he was replicating the exact melody on a set of piano keys invisible to everyone but himself. And through it all, his eyes remained fixed on the stage.

John was overcome by a sudden thought—no, a _feeling_ —one that he had been doing everything within his power to fight off for a long, long time. Whether it was the sheer amount of time it had been building up inside of him or simply John being swept up in the moment, it didn’t matter. His mind refused to offer up anything but the one single notion, unrepressed after so long.

Laszlo was beautiful.

The soft lighting of the hall illuminated him, casting his features into striking shadow, setting the rest of his face aglow. John looked at him with artist’s eyes, yet in that moment, so much more.

Laszlo was beautiful.

The spell was broken by the sudden roar of applause, startling John back to awareness—somehow, they’d reached the end of the performance. Part of him was numb as he stood with the rest of the crowd for the standing ovation, a thrumming feeling beginning to spread through him like a limb that had fallen asleep and was only beginning to regain circulation.

Laszlo turned to him, dark eyes alight, an honest-to-god grin gracing his face as he clapped. He shouted something, but John couldn’t make it out over the applause, nor the pounding of his own heart in his ears.

Laszlo was beautiful.

And John was fucked.


	2. ii

It didn’t end up being an issue that John hadn’t heard Laszlo’s final thoughts during the ovation, as he launched into a detailed recap the moment they stepped outside.

“—had my doubts about the arrangement, of course,” he was saying, walking quickly and speaking quicker. “There were a few pieces I hadn’t yet had the pleasure of hearing live, and others I wouldn’t have thought would go so well together. I know you’re aware that I’m not fond of surprises, but even I find the occasional pleasant one not unwelcome.”

His accent, while barely noticeable in average speech, thickened when he was excited. Still, despite that and the din of the other concert attendees flooding the street, his words were crystal clear to John.

“And the venue was exquisite as well. You know John, second to a cohesive set list, the proper setting is also key to ensuring the highest quality performance. Acoustics, sound quality, even atmosphere are all—”

Laszlo stopped abruptly, turning to look back at where John had fallen a few steps behind.

“My apologies,” he said, sounding more composed and slightly sheepish as John caught up to him. “I just realized I haven’t given you two words to speak of your own thoughts on the performance.”

John looked at him—the soft light of the street lamps nearly eclipsed by the glowing delight on his face—and simply smiled.

“I thought it was lovely.”

Laszlo beamed, and John lost his breath for a moment.

The concert hall was close enough to Laszlo’s house to walk. Though it would be quicker by carriage, he’d told John earlier that afternoon that he would be giving Cyrus the weekend off.

“He wants to put the finishing touches on the bar before Joanna arrives in town,” he’d explained. “Besides, that man works harder than anyone I’ve met; he’s well past deserving of a break.”

Normally John would suggest public transit. However, the season was just beginning to turn, and the evenings had been mild—perfect weather for a walk.

The silence between them was comfortable, as it often was. John had grown to appreciate that about his friendship with Laszlo; while he would otherwise prefer to fill gaps in conversation with meaningless small talk, Laszlo had a way of setting him at ease. John could simply enjoy his company without feeling the need to fill the silence.

“Would you indulge me with a night cap, John?” Laszlo asked as they ascended the front steps. John smiled wryly.

“Need you even ask?”

And so, it wasn’t long before John was seated comfortably in Laszlo’s sitting room, absently tapping his fingers against his half-finished glass of gin. Laszlo had retrieved a file from his study before settling down with his own drink, and had been sipping it occasionally while he looked over the contents.

After a few minutes of listening to the rustling of papers, John’s curiosity won out.

“Might I ask what work you’re doing at this time of night?”

“It’s not work—” Laszlo looked up to meet John’s knowing look, and he huffed. “Not really. An old colleague of mine has been conducting some research that I find rather interesting, and I’ve asked him to keep me updated.”

He paused, an odd look flitting across his face.

“Though,” he said slowly, “if I’m honest, this study may well be more suited to you than I.”

John raised an eyebrow, intrigued. “Oh? How is that?”

Laszlo didn’t answer right away—just pursed his lips and shuffled his papers.

“After the case of Japeth Dury, and the resulting passing of…” he trailed off, gesturing lamely to the room at large. John’s throat tightened, and he nodded.

“I realized that there is a lot about certain aspects of... _intimacy_ that I had never considered. Despite all of my reading, all my work with various patients, it’s become clear to me that there is much I still don’t know about matters of love and sex.”

John laughed to cover up practically inhaling his own spit.

“I’m sorry to say it Laszlo, but anybody and their mothers could have told you as much.”

Laszlo frowned and, curiously enough, John could’ve sworn he saw a tinge of red to his cheeks.

“Oh, come now.” John stood, approaching Laszlo’s armchair. To his mild surprise, Laszlo didn’t attempt to yank the file away when he reached for it, and John pulled out a few papers at random.

“ _Attraction versus Affection,_ ” he read aloud, thumbing through the pages. “ _Intimacy’s Many Forms_ ; _The Benefits of Sexual Bonding_ ; _Love, Companionship, and Sexual Attraction_ …”

John’s eyebrows rose with every headline. He looked down at Laszlo, who was suddenly very interested in shuffling his remaining papers.

“Interesting. And this relates to me how, exactly?”

Laszlo looked up in mild surprise.

“You’re in love,” he stated plainly, and John nearly choked on his own tongue.

“What?” he forced out. Laszlo stared at him.

“Was it not mere months ago that you proposed to Miss Howard?”

_Oh_. John nearly sighed in relief.

“Not to mention your former engagement to Julia,” Laszlo continued, apparently not noticing John’s slip-up. “You’ve been in love twice at the least—if you aren’t still—and along with that, you’ve…”

John definitely wasn’t imagining the flush of Laszlo’s cheeks as he cleared his throat.

“You have engaged in sexual activity, both in love and in lust. Most of those things are more than I can say for myself.”

The embarrassment at Laszlo’s assessment of him was quickly overshadowed with shock.

“More than...Laszlo, have you never…?”

Laszlo pursed his lips, holding out his hand for the papers. John handed them over, gaping.

“I haven’t.

John was stunned. He realized vaguely that they’d never really talked about this sort of thing—not on Laszlo’s end, at least. 

“I...I didn’t know.”

“I never made a point to speak about it,” Laszlo replied mildly. He shrugged, keeping his eyes averted in uncharacteristic timidness.

“May I ask why?” Surely a man such as Laszlo had been propositioned before—though knowing him, John mused, it was likely he had and simply never realized. The man was clueless—hell, even if John himself were to do so, Laszlo may not even register that—

He blinked hard, reeling now for a very different reason. Him? Proposition Laszlo?

A sudden lump in his throat made it difficult to swallow, and he reflexively reached for the bottle of gin on the side table at Laszlo’s elbow to refill his glass. There were only so many unbidden deviant thoughts he could deal with in one night, and he was much too sober.

He only realized that Laszlo had fallen silent when he spoke again.

“I suppose I simply haven’t felt the need.”

John’s eyebrows shot up. He resisted the urge to down his freshly refilled glass in one go.

“Really?”

“Well...not exactly.” Laszlo raised his own empty glass, waiting for John to refill it before he elaborated.

“While I certainly do feel desire—”

John’s fingers unconsciously tightened on his glass.

“—and while I occasionally engage in sexual activities without a partner—”

He hoped to god that his face was as red as it felt, as that would at least afford him the mercy of keeping his blood from pooling in a much less fortunate area.

“—there have not been many times in which I have felt the urge to... _indulge_ myself with anyone else. That is to say, the idea of sex with someone for the sake of sex alone is…”

Laszlo wrinkled his nose, his expression caught somewhere between displeased and embarrassed.

“...unappealing.”

John was having a difficult time following; though, that could have been largely to do with how much energy he was focusing into not letting his imagination stray into dangerous territory.

“So...you are not interested in a sexual partner?”

Laszlo made a short noise of frustration, though John got the feeling that it was not directed entirely at him.

“I _am_ ,” he stressed (making John instantly regret asking), “but not with just anybody—not at a brothel, nor with someone with whom I have no prior _connection_ , for lack of a better term. The desire is there—the attraction is conditional. Hence—”

He held up the file before placing it on the table next to the bottle of gin. John nodded slowly.

“I understand...on some level, at least.”

Laszlo hummed. “I am grateful for you to attempt that much.”

An awkward tension settled over them, and John was overcome with the sudden need to do _something_. He once again took up the bottle, topping off his glass and gesturing to Laszlo’s, already half-drained again.

“Let us toast,” he suggested. Laszlo gave him a puzzled look, but allowed him to refill his glass anyways.

“To what?”

“To…” John’s eyes scanned the room for inspiration, falling on the discarded file.

“To the pursuit of knowledge,” he decided. The alcohol was beginning to hit—not nearly strong enough to give him more than a pleasant buzz, but it was enough to loosen him up to break the tension.

“The pursuit of knowledge, and—and—”

“And to the study of human desire,” Laszlo added. He must have been feeling the effects as well; John could tell he wasn’t drunk, though he certainly appeared tipsy. He grinned.

“Alright. To the pursuit of knowledge, and the study of human desire, and to...to...to Laszlo Kreizler’s peculiar libido!”

For a brief moment, he was struck with the panicked thought that he had gone too far—then Laszlo burst into laughter, startling him.

“Yes, that as well. To the pursuit of knowledge, study of desire, my peculiar libido...and to John Schuyler Moore’s numerous bedmates.”

“We are not toasting to my ‘bedmates!’” John exclaimed, but he too was laughing. Laszlo just gave him a wry grin.

“You’re right, else we’d be here until dawn. Alright, then—” he began counting on his fingers, “—knowledge, studying desire, my libido, and...what would serve as a suitable replacement for sexual partners?”

John pondered the question, but he had only a moment to do so before Laszlo abruptly stood, raising his glass triumphantly.

“And to John Schuyler Moore’s penis!”

There was a moment of silence before John positively howled in laughter, nearly folding himself in half with the force of it.

“To my penis!” he announced loudly.

“Hear, hear!” Laszlo called, and they raised their glasses to each other before downing the remaining gin at once.

John had tears in his eyes, and his cheeks and gut ached. When he met Laszlo’s gaze, catching him mid-laugh, he once again saw that rare sparkle in his eyes—so full of life, a precious glimpse into an unguarded Laszlo Kreizler—but this time, it was directed entirely at him.

He almost didn’t realize what he was doing until the moment that his hands met Laszlo’s face and he was pressing their lips together.

John was instantly bombarded with a hundred sensations at once: the coarse beard beneath his hands; the mildly uncomfortable way his nose was pressed against Laszlo’s cheek; the firmness of his lips, candied with gin and new to John, yet somehow undeniably, inexplicably _Laszlo_ —so much so that by the time the reality of what he was doing had the chance to register, Laszlo was grasping the hand on his cheek with his own weaker one and pressing into the kiss with vigour.

Between John’s shock and Laszlo’s unexpected fervor, they stumbled back a few steps before John’s legs collided with the sofa behind him and sent him falling back against the cushions. He let out a winded breath, immediately lost as Laszlo dipped down and closed the space between them again.

Laszlo kissed gracelessly, erratically, so unlike everything else he did. John’s hands were restless, moving up from his hips to his ribs, up under his arms to clutch at his shoulder blades and run down the curve of his back.

Laszlo was the one to break the kiss, resting his forehead against John’s as they both caught their breath. His whole face was coloured a faint rosy shade, and John couldn’t help but reach up and brush his knuckles along his cheek.

Laszlo let out a breath, leaning ever so slightly into the touch.

“What are we doing?” he murmured.

John felt his heart sink. He was right—what were they doing? What was _he_ doing?

It seemed like Laszlo wasn’t looking for an answer however, as before John could offer one he was leaning back down to capture his lips again. As his racing thoughts quieted and he began to relax, John slowly started to grow more confident in the role he had become accustomed to.

Laszlo’s lips parted quickly when John ran his tongue along the seam of his mouth. He tightened his grip, pulling him closer and kissing him deeper, deeper. And Laszlo obliged, responding to John’s every gesture with almost dizzying receptiveness. He was obviously inexperienced, and John was torn between wanting to guide him and wanting to get lost in the near frenzied rhythm.

When they parted to breathe again, Laszlo muttered something against John’s cheek.

“What?” asked John eloquently. Laszlo lifted his head, and John had to hold back an embarrassing noise at how undone he already looked—face flushed, eyes hazy, lips slick and swollen from kissing.

“Please.”

_Yes_ , something in John’s mind shouted, _yes, I’d give you everything you want and more._

However, the small part of his reserve that remained made him hesitate.

“Do you...are you sure you want this?”

Laszlo frowned at him.

“Why would you think otherwise?”

“Laszlo, you only just revealed to me that your sexual attraction is—”

“Yes, I am aware of what I said,” Laszlo replied impatiently.

John felt slow and a little stunned with the turn the night had taken, and he struggled to wrap his mind around it all.

“I just—I want to make sure that you—”

“ _John._ ”

John snapped his mouth shut. Laszlo cupped his face firmly, looking him dead in the eyes with a startlingly serious expression.

“Do you trust me?”

John heard himself answer before he gave it a single thought.

“With my life,” he whispered, half surprising himself at the raw honesty in his voice.

The smile that Laszlo gave him was enough to steal the breath from his lungs.

“Take me to bed,” he murmured, leaning forward to rest his forehead against John’s.

As they made their way upstairs, exchanging brief touches as though they couldn’t be apart for more than a few moments, John couldn’t help but revisit his earlier revelation. As he slowly, gently undressed Laszlo before disrobing himself in kind—as he guided him to lay back on the bed, running his hands over every inch of the body he was finally allowed to touch—as he took Laszlo into his mouth and watched his every twitch, heard every hitch of breath and bitten-off moan—he could think of nothing else.

After Laszlo had finished and allowed John to trail his lips and teeth over his neck, he left him with a lingering kiss before replaying his motions—albeit a bit clumsily—until John’s toes were curling and he couldn’t hope to stop the breathless noises at each flick of Laszlo’s tongue.

It was that thought that remained when all others had fallen away as his pleasure peaked, and the word on his tongue when he met Laszlo’s eyes the final time before his own rolled back with the force of his orgasm.

“ _Beautiful._ ”


	3. iii

John was no stranger to waking up in odd and compromising situations—hell, there had been a point in his life where he’d have been more surprised to wake up in his own bed than in someone else’s. So when he slowly came to in a bed that wasn’t his own, down to his drawers and curled against a warm body, he hardly felt the need to wake up enough to react. The pillows were soft, the blankets light, and everything smelled faintly comforting—like a quiet afternoon reading, or an armchair by the fire, or—or—

His eyes flew open, the haze of sleep disappearing in an instant. The memories of the previous night flooded back, and John realized where he was—in Laszlo’s room, in Laszlo’s _bed_ , his arm draped over the naked torso of his best friend. Panic shot through him and he practically jerked away, very nearly falling off the edge of the bed.

He threw the blankets off of himself and started collecting his clothes from where they’d been left in a heap on the floor. He heard Laszlo stirring behind him, but determinedly kept his back to the bed.

“John?”

Laszlo’s voice was soft and rough with sleep. Despite himself, John stilled.

“I...I must go.”

Laszlo gave no reply, and John sighed roughly.

“We shouldn’t have...Laszlo, last night was a mistake.”

There were a few moments of heavy silence before Laszlo spoke again, quiet and unreadable.

“Do you regret it?”

Feeling weary, John sighed and sunk down to sit on the edge of the bed, still facing away.

“It’s wrong, Laszlo—wrong and unnatural and depraved.”

Laszlo shifted, sitting up in bed. John could feel his calculating eyes on his back.

“That doesn’t answer my question.”

Slowly, John turned to face him. He looked almost entirely composed, aside from the shock of hair standing up from where he’d slept on it, and (John noted with a strange mix of humiliation and pride) a brilliant red-purple bruise low on his neck.

He couldn’t bring himself to be truthful, nor to lie, so he diverted.

“Do you? Regret it, I mean.”

Laszlo tilted his head, giving him a sort of half-smile before running his fingers along John’s bare arm and covering his hand with his own.

When he kissed him, soft and gentle, John didn’t pull away.

Their lips parted after a few seconds, and despite everything, John felt himself break into a wide smile.

“That doesn’t answer my question,” he teased. Laszlo chuckled and rested his forehead against John’s.

“My apologies. Shall I elaborate?”

“Please.”

As Laszlo leaned into the kiss, John slowly reclined so they were laying back on the bed. He ran his fingers over Laszlo’s beard when they broke apart, prompting a contented hum from deep in his chest.

“Perhaps,” John murmured, unable to hide a mischievous grin, “further explanation is needed.”

Laszlo’s chest rumbled with a quiet laugh.

It was late in the morning when John finally managed to drag himself from Laszlo’s bed to dress and return home. He hailed a calash, silently thanking the stars that Cyrus was off work and wouldn’t be a witness to John’s horrible poker face.

Once settled in the carriage, he tucked his hands into his jacket pockets for warmth—only to find a crumpled piece of paper hidden deep in the fabric. Frowning, he smoothed it out over his leg to look.

It was the program from the night before, what now seemed like an eon ago. John couldn’t help the fond smile as he scanned the names of songs he’d never be able to remember, before pausing at the last title.

An image surfaced: Laszlo staring raptly at the stage, fingers dancing in perfect sync with the melody. It had been the last piece, John was sure of it.

He recalled something distantly, from what seemed like another lifetime; a song of the same name printed neatly in newspaper script; Sara’s insistent tone; the shock of the revelation that Laszlo had kept hidden for all those years. The pain on his face when John finally brought it up. The weak twitching of his right hand while the song was played onstage, forever now unable to recreate the melody he had loved in his youth.

He was jolted out of his thoughts by the carriage’s rough stop in front of his house. He absently thanked and tipped the driver, mind already racing.

It hadn’t been more than an hour before John was off again, catching another coach. This time, however, he had a different purpose.

“Downtown, please,” he told the driver, “to the Montrose Oyster Saloon.”

Cyrus greeted him warmly when he entered the bar—or, what would be the bar in a few short days. John shook his hand before looking around, impressed.

“It’s come together nicely in such a short time.”

“Sure has,” Cyrus said proudly. “Should be ready to open just around the time Joanna gets here.”

He put aside the broom he’d been using, leaning it against the wall before tucking his hands in his back pockets.

“So, what can I do for you?”

Suddenly reminded what he was there for, John felt his stomach flutter with nerves.

“I have a favour to ask.”

Cyrus looked at him expectantly, and he took a steadying breath.

“I was wondering—if it isn’t too much trouble, of course—if you would perhaps...give me some lessons on the piano.”

Cyrus raised his eyebrows.

“Oh?”

“I’d pay you, of course,” John said hurriedly, “and I don’t expect to take much of your time. I know you’ve got your hands full at the moment.”

Cyrus was giving him a curious look.

“Well, I’m no teacher,” he said slowly, “but I wouldn’t be opposed to helping out. Anything in particular you’ve got in mind?”

“Yes, actually.”

John pulled the creased paper from his coat pocket, smoothing it out on the nearest table before tapping the last item on the page.

“This one.”

Cyrus leaned over his shoulder to read, then shot him a questioning glance.

“I’m assuming you’re not looking to play the full concerto,” he said. John nodded, hoping desperately that Cyrus wouldn’t pick up on his absolute incompetence.

“Even so,” he continued, “the piano portion of Mozart’s Concerto no. 20 is a difficult one, not to mention for a beginner. Are you sure you wouldn’t prefer something a bit...slower?”

“No, no, it must be this one,” John insisted. He squirmed under Cyrus’s calculating gaze—so much like Laszlo in the way he read others. He cleared his throat uncomfortably.

“If it helps,” he said in a tentative tone, “I really only wish to learn the part of the right hand.”

Something in Cyrus’s expression clicked, a faint realization dawning in his eyes that made John’s palms grow clammy.

It seemed like an age before he spoke.

“I can’t promise to make you a modern-day Wolfgang,” Cyrus said, still giving John that thoughtful look, “but I can give it a shot.”

John exhaled the breath he’d been holding.

“Thank you Cyrus, truly.”

“Ah, it’s no issue. It’ll give me an excuse to play more, anyways.”

They made small talk for a few more minutes before John stood to take his leave. His hand was resting on the door handle when Cyrus spoke up.

“John.”

His face was serious, but when their eyes met he gave John a hint of a smile.

“I wish you all the best.”

The weight of his words was not lost on John, who swallowed hard.

“Thank you.”

“Meet me here tomorrow at noon!” Cyrus called after him as he stepped outside.

As the door swung shut behind him, John allowed himself a moment to bask in the early afternoon sunlight. The air was cool as he turned his face to the sun, a grin on his lips that he couldn’t remember donning. He felt about ten years younger, light on his feet as he made his way down the uneven cobblestone.

His mind wandered, unbidden, to Laszlo; despite having left his home barely a few hours earlier, he found himself wondering what he was planning for lunch.

_No_ , he mused, _I mustn’t call on him again so soon_.

He chuckled to himself; it felt like his first love over again.

And, John thought as he reached up to touch his smiling lips, in some ways...maybe it was.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Remember to take a break today, you deserve it.
> 
> [tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/redex-writes)


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